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Monday, December 21, 2015

Tossing Butch, Saving Theodore

So, my other blog was so dusty, it gave me an asthma attack, and
that leads to this.

My novel, THE NINES, is out now and has
been for a few weeks. Problem is, I'm not a millionaire yet, so
something's gone horribly wrong. Like I haven't lured you, the reading
public, into my Money Run lair.

But, as I write a lot about drug dealers
(and I mean A LOT!) I know how to handle this. I'm offering you a tease
here. Below is my storyTossing
Butch, Saving Theodore from my collection AMERICAN GOMORRAH.
This is set in the same world as my novel, THE NINES.

It's like a warped Christmas gift for you
all.

It’s called The Money Run for a reason:
cash flows like water down the Mississippi in spring. This excess leads to a great deal of
discretionary income which can, in turn, lead to some very interesting options
for the entertainment dollar.

-Excerpt
from The Money Run: American Gomorrah

By
James Pfizer

“I l-l-love
you, Butch.”

“Oh, for
Chrissakes! Cease and desist with that crap.”
Butch stripped off the cum-slicked latex glove, tossing it into the
cornfields rolling past.

“I won’t
l-l-lie about my feelings.” Big Guy
slowed the van when he located a clearing on the shoulder. He pulled up his jeans. “I love you.
I love your tiny hands, I love your little butt, I love your big heart…”

“Enough! I’m not asking you to lie. Just…just keep that stuff to your damn self.”

“Screw Dazy –
keep away from her. You shouldn’t seek
guidance from some whore we liberated from a truck stop.” Butch rolled up the
window and opened the glove box for some lotion. “Concentrate on what we’re working toward,
okay? Now go get situated for your
nap. We need you to throw fire tonight -
this is the big time.”

Big Guy, or
whichever personality dominated now, nodded and opened the Dodge’s door. The van creaked back into its mostly normal
position, the driver’s side still a hint lower because he drove so often. Butch heard the scraping of the back door
latch. Moments later, the large man
returned with some customized equipment.
He rigged in place the elongated pedals and special seat which Butch
himself had designed as an undergrad.

“You should
listen to Dazy more,” Big Guy said as he removed Butch from the passenger seat,
cradling him like a huge infant. “She’s
more than a habit and a great rack.”

“I’d rather
look at her than endure her nonsense.”
Butch squirmed like a four-year-old in church. “Now put me down so I can relieve myself.”

“Yes, Mother,”
Butch said. “But I’m only making it
easier for you. If I get below a
hundred, it’ll increase our odds exponentially.
You want to go to Australia, don’t you?”

The giant
sighed. “No. But I’ll go anywhere for you.”

“Thanks.” And Butch wanted to go to
Australia to compete in the international championships. It was as close to an athletic achievement as
anything he would ever claim. “Now, will
you let me go before I mess my pants?”

Big Guy
released a “tsk,” but set Butch on the shoulder. “That’s going to be some obituary: ‘Competitor drowns in own f-f-feces.’”

Butch barely
heard the comment. Butt cheeks clenched,
he ran to the van for toilet paper then into the corn stalks. His diminutive legs churned like childproof
scissors hooked to a 457 motor.
Conducting his business, he fished in his sweat’s pocket, removing a
blister pack of X-lax. He popped two –
chocolate flavored, of course – before weaving his way through the corn back to
the van.

“What’s up,
Squirt?” Sister Dazy asked. Now awake
but still fully nude, she sat on the running board sucking a lollipop between
gulps of tequila. Butch stiffened
immediately as Big Guy’s assessment of her rack was dead on.

“My spirits.”

“Is that what
we’re calling it today?” She attempted
no subtlety while eyeing his crotch.
“Does that have something to do with its ghost-like appearance?”

Butch flipped
her the bird. “It might be little, but I
can hurt you with it. Kind of would put
a new twist on ‘pushing up daisies.’”

“In your
dreams, Butch.”

“Every
night.” He cackled when Dazy responded
with

her own obscene gesture.
“Enough pleasantries. You going
to ride like that? I’d appreciate it -
make up for some of the headaches you cause me.”

As she rose,
reaching inside for her habit, the large man lumbered around the front of the
van. A cigarette now hung from his mouth
and he’d rolled his tee-shirt sleeves, exposing upper arms that belonged on a
Greek sculpture. Ponytail undone, his
hair blew in the scalding wind like that of a hero on a romance-novel cover.

Dazy erupted
in laughter. Butch loathed her laugh,
especially when it mocked him. The red
head placed her hands over her bosom to limit the jiggling. “Maybe just a quick hand job then? You know, just to tide him over till the
contest. You want one for the road,
Theodore?”

“Does Butch
shit in the cornfields?” The giant eyed
Butch with an expectant look. Snorts
escaped from Dazy.

Glaring at the
sister, Butch stepped from the large man.
He felt the familiar sting - ridicule from a normal-sized person who
felt their height proved superiority to Butch in every way. “What?
Again? My arm’s hamburger here.”

“What do you
mean again?” Theodore kneaded his
readily-apparent erection. “I could
really use one here, buddy.”

Butch clapped
a hand over his mouth, quickly removing it.
He hoped the giant would ignore the gesture, as the Theodore personality
displayed extreme jealousy toward Big Guy.
With the competition but a few hours away, Butch couldn’t risk upsetting
any of the former football center’s personalities. If the giant started moping, he’d be as
useless as a punctured condom.

“Tell you what. You lobby Sister Dazy into pleasuring me I’ll
in turn assist you. Hell, I’ll even take
one from that messed-up hand. Probably
more fun with all that friction.”

Theodore turned to the nun, his
expectant expression still evident. She
put her left hand behind her back.

“Sorry, Sweetie. Looks like you’re going without today,” she
said between snorts. “But I’ll give you
one if you want.”

Butch
and Theodore moaned a chorus of disappointment.

“That’s okay,” Theodore said. “It’s awfully nice of you, ma’am, but it’s
just not the same.” Dazy’s laugh trailed
off. Though the large man consistently
denied the nun’s advances, Butch saw how the rejection always stung. Guilt ate at him, seeing the disappointment
they both displayed.

“Fine,” Butch said. “Now can we get moving?” His two companions sulked away like kids
denied dessert.

# # #

The July night enveloped the plains,
swallowing endless rows of corn. A quilt
of clouds trapped the heat from the day.
Turning down another two-lane road, this one paved, Butch began
questioning if the navigation system’s voice possessed any clue as to where the
fuck she was going. Again, he checked
his watch, worried they might not reach the venue in time for registration.

He spat into
his lucky cup, the one with the faded MIT logo.
“Lucky” was a relative term.
There wasn’t much luck involved when he used to slip roofies into the
cups of some female undergrads. He
lowered the Brahms enough to hear Dazy.

“You’re going
to die, you know that?” She tossed the
empty tequila bottle but forgot the window wasn’t rolled down. The impact created a ding like a web from an
especially small spider.

“You think? In news to you, you’re going to expire
someday, too.”

“No, I mean
soon – like maybe tonight – if you don’t get some water in you.”

“I can drink
when I’m dead. I’m three pounds too
heavy.”

Dazy gazed
back, one drunken eye closed. “For
somebody supposed to be so all smart, you say some of the stupidest shit I ever
heard.”

Butch allowed
a small chuckle. “You know what I
meant.”

“You’re never
off this bad, Squirt. Why you sweating
things so much?”

“I’m worried
about him. He’s been loony lately, you
know? More erratic than usual.” Butch worked the saliva in his dry mouth and
spat out the little he’d mustered.

“He’ll be
fine, but you need to calm down.
He feeds off you. If you’re uptight, he’s uptight.”

“But this is a
big chance for us tonight – a sanctioned event and all. Plus, figuring in the
appearance fee and bets, we could walk away with maybe six figures.”

Dazy blew the
fiery hair from her face, her alcohol-infused breath filling the van. “Sanctioned?
I thought this shit was illegal?”

“Prexactly.”

“Then who
sanctioned it, smart ass?”

Butch inhaled
a long breath. He’d explained everything
several times before, but Dazy’s drunkenness conveniently erased her memory on
an almost daily basis. “The
international body sanctioned it, it’s just not publicized. And since it’s under the cloak of The Money
Run, nobody that doesn’t need to know ever does.”

Dazy picked up
the discarded bottle, checking for any liquid she might have missed. Finding nothing, she again tossed the bottle,
leaving yet another ding. “I love The Money Run,” she said before slumping,
instantly snoring in loud, disturbing bursts.

Butch loved
The Money Run, too. After his and
Theodore’s - back then the giant had possessed but the one personality -
embarrassing dismissal from the university, the pair drifted. Butch wouldn’t join the ranks of corporate
America, unwilling to allow any schmuck with a stock certificate to possibly
profit from his genius. And his
reputation among academics had been destroyed upon the exposure of Theodore’s
scheme. It seemed regent and chancellor-types
frowned on a grad student completing research papers for any male who’d blow
the center of the football team. Who
knew? But Theodore was the first person
to ever call Butch “friend,” and Butch felt that warranted getting his friend
what pleasure he could.

Hitchhiking along I-80 two summers
later, a truck driver named Duck had picked them up. Duck introduced Butch, Theodore and
Theodore’s then-emerging personalities to The Money Run. It seemed there’s another America, one of
back roads and gentlemen’s agreements, although one would be hard pressed to
find any gentlemen there. These roads
served as a conduit for all sorts of underground happenings from prostitution
to bootlegging to, yes, dwarf tossing.
Duck had bankrolled their first tournament, a first-place finish thanks
to Theodore’s long-snap style, and Butch caught the bug. Flying through the air, sucking wind in an
attempt to gain a few more inches, Butch finally understood the thrill of
competition. He felt closer to Theodore
than ever. They’d been Money Run
residents ever since.

After several
turns and one of Butch’s visits to the corn, Dazy stirred with a belch, rubbing
the sleep from her eyes. “He loves you,
you know?” she said, half unconscious.
“All of him do.”

Butch opened the
cooler separating the captain’s chairs and tossed her a bottle of water. “Don’t you find it interesting that he has
approximately four billion personalities, yet each of them is gay?” he asked. “And why are you always bringing this
up? Doesn’t your church disapprove of
homosexuality?”

“I’m not
exactly in church’s good graces, either.”
She downed half the water in one drink, then smacked her lips, trying to
resuscitate her tongue. “But what I find
odd is I love all his personalities, while I can’t bring myself to like your
one in the least.”

“You know, for
a nun, you’re one mean bitch.”

“And for a
little person, you sure got a big fucking mouth.”

Butch
stretched his mouth, exposing his tonsils and rolling his tongue. Dazy conceded to laughter as the midget
hammed it up.

“So, what do
you have against me, Sister?” Butch
asked. “And, oh, can I think of answers
to that question that’d register a smile upon my face.”

The nun
reached into the cooler, removing a beer.
She popped the cap by banging it against the armrest. “I don’t like how you treat him. He loves you deeply and you don’t return it.”

“Shouldn’t the
fact that I’m straight figure somewhere into this equation? Must I repress my natural biological leanings
in favor of his happiness?”

“Then why do
you encourage him? Your right arm looks
like Popeye’s on steroids.”

Butch started
answering several times, struggling for proper words. Finally, he said: “I just try to keep him well-maintained. A jockey or an Indy driver is nothing without
their horse or car. I’m nothing without
him. I do what I can to keep him happy.”

“And that,
Squirt, is what I have against you.” She
drained a long swig off the bottle, wiping her mouth with her forearm. “He’s in serious trouble and you encourage this
crap. He needs an exorcism to rid him of
all those demons living…”

“For
Chrissakes, Dazy…”

Dazy jabbed
the bottle at his face. A large glob of
foam spilled into Butch’s lap. “Don’t
take the Lord’s name in vain with me!”

“…he’s not
possessed, he’s sick. I’ve taken him to
dozens of shrinks and we got a bag of pharmaceuticals to rival a psych ward…”

“Would you two
shut the hell up?” The voice came from
the back of the van, effeminate and lisping.
Butch and Dazy exchanged a look, their eyes opened in exaggerated
surprise. “Rico needs some sleep. And when Rico’s done, some help from the
little guy wouldn’t hurt Rico’s feelings, either.”

“Oh no,” Dazy
whispered.

“Not now,”
answered Butch.

The cornfield
opened into a vast clearing. Dwarfed by
the gravel parking lot, a cinder-block building stood like an outpost on a
foreign planet. The navigation system
informed them they’d arrived at their destination. Snoring again resonated from the folding bed
in back.

“Not Rico,”
Dazy said. “That flamer couldn’t throw
you two feet with those limp wrists. We
have no chance.”

“Prexactly.”

Butch pulled
the van over at the edge of the cornfield, far from the building. Several familiar vans sat parked outside, the
rides of the usual competitors. Various
semis and flatbeds littered the rest of the lot. Butch cut the engine.

“Toss me my
toilet paper, please.”

# # #

The corn
rustled as Butch squatted. He pinched
his cheeks and strained his ears, but the sound of drying stalks scraping
against each other grew louder. Butch
felt the sensation of something watching him, and remembered the legends he’d
heard. Allegedly, any number of
creatures thrived in the darker corners of The Money Run. Butch waited for the rustling to resume, but
heard only the breath rushing from him in short, panicky bursts.

Tentatively,
he stretched, extending for the toilet paper on the ground. He struggled with balance as he scanned the
crops for any unwelcome beasts. Just as
he’d begun to relax, whatever lurked broke loose, rushing at him. Butch reached for his sweats, but it was too
late.

“Up to the
same ol’ tricks, eh Butch? I hope everything
comes out all right.”

A lump rose in
Butch’s throat at the sound of the familiar, high-pitched voice. He pulled up the sweats and turned to find
Lefty Gonzalez snickering. Lefty
competed as The One-Armed Bandit, often bragging that his missing arm made him
not only lighter, but more aerodynamic.
Apparently he’d lost it in a tragic vending machine incident.

“I thought I
saw your van,” Lefty said. The pentagram tattoo on his forehead danced when he
spoke. “Parked on the far side of the lot like that, I figured I’d find you out
here. You know laxatives are a banned
substance, right, Butch?”

“What do you
want, Lefty?”

The man
giggled, holding his belly with his remaining arm. “What could I possibly want, Butch? Maybe the fifty G you owe from Santa Fe? Perhaps the twenty you lost outside of St.
Paul.”

Butch glared,
opening and clenching his tiny hands. He
thought of strangling the pompous ass.

“All-in-all,
you’re into me for over a hundred fifty big ones now. I can’t let that slide any more, even if I
wanted to. Every punk along The Money
Run would peg me for a pushover, and we can’t have that, can we?”

“You know I
don’t have that kind of scratch.”

Lefty smiled,
confirming he knew. “Now I’m a
reasonable peace-loving guy. I think we can
work something out, don’t you?”

Butch closed
his eyes and inhaled deeply. In his
experience, the phrase “we can work something out,” usually resulted in him
figuratively taking something large and uncomfortable directly up the anal
cavity. “What are you proposing, Lefty?”

“I see it that
you have three options. One: win tonight and make enough from the back
room to cover what you owe.”

That sounded
reasonable as it was a facsimile of Butch’s plan all along.

“Two: in the unfortunate, but highly likely event
that you lose, I’m leaving here with your partner.”

“Theodore?” The idea of killing Lefty seemed more
plausible the longer the little bastard kept talking.

“Whatever name
the psycho’s going by now. I could whip
him into shape and never lose again.”
Lefty’s grin punctuated the implied insult. “Oh, and the whore, too.”

“Sister
Dazy? Have you been taking that little
mind of yours out and playing with it again?”

“I have some
fine plans for her, too.”

Butch
considered offering Dazy up just to wipe away the debt, but figured he’d better
see how things played out.

“What’s option
three?” Butch asked. When he turned from
Rico’s lisp-inflected voice, he found himself alone. He spun, his head jerking in furtive motions,
but he refrained from calling out, not wishing Rico to hear.

“Butch? Do I have to come in all that messy corn to
find you?”

“I’m coming already,”
Butch yelled. “Can’t a guy get a little
privacy?” He picked up the toilet paper,
scanning the stalks a final time.
Finding nothing, he pulled down his sweats to finish.

# # #

His knees
knocked still as he emerged from the cornfield.
Butch found the van locked, but rocking.
Its shoddy springs creaked like rusty hinges, and the closed windows
barely muffled the yowling and howling inside.
Screaming like a schoolgirl who’d found a spider in her hair, Rico cried
for help.

Butch knelt
for the spare in the hide-a-key-compartment and murmured, “Of course she is,
because I’ve got time for this today.”

He slid open
the side door, finding Sister Dazy straddling Rico’s shirtless chest. She’d bound his hands with Rosary beads and
rode the giant like a champion broncobuster.
Struggling beneath her, Rico dug his stocking feet into the red velvet
of the folding bed, bucking.

“The power of
Christ compels your ass,” Dazy said. She
flung a dose from a plastic water bottle at him.

“Get her off,
Butch,” Rico cried in hysteria. “She’s
scaring me.”

Butch crawled
into the van. “C’mon Dazy. Let him be.”

“E Pluribus
Unum.” Dazy swung her head in a frenzy,
the red hair forming a ball of hellfire.
She’d worked herself into a state that existed on its own plane. “Et-gay out-tay, evil-Day.” Dousing the shrieking Rico with more water,
she held her head up. Her eyes had
rolled back into her skull.

“Dazy!” Butch lunged, catching her in the ribs and
knocking her into the paneled van wall.
He heard the air escape her on impact.

Dazy often
spoke of being “sent,” presumably by her order to save souls and pray for those
along The Money Run. Butch and Theodore
had met her outside a truck stop in Alabama.
She drank a Coors and was offering twenty-dollar blowjobs to truckers
stopping in for the lunch rush. Then she
saw Theodore.

“You’re lost,
aren’t you?” she’d asked. Blocking the
doorway, she placed her beer can in Theodore’s massive chest. Butch simply gazed at her legs which seemed
to begin at her neck and curved in all the right spots. “I’m right, you’re lost?”

The giant
shook his head, confused.

“You’re him -
the one I’ve been sent for.”

Butch should
have stopped it right there, but the horny little devil inside him had seized
his tongue. He watched in stunned
silence as Dazy collected her duffle and the remaining twelve pack, and
strutted toward the van. She claimed the
passenger seat, where they found her still after they’d finished lunch.

Over the
months, Butch had come to believe that she may have been a nun at one time, at
least educated in religious studies to an extent. Their conversations, when lucidity teased
her, provided some intellectual sparring that he’d missed. He’d enjoyed them enough to dismiss her
parasitic tendencies and quit questioning why she’d chosen them. But as her frustration with saving Theodore
increased, so did the drinking. Her
condition had deteriorated to where Butch seriously considered leaving her on
the side of the road like she had so many empty six packs. Great rack be damned.

And now, with
Rico scrambling out of the van, probably wrecked for the competition, Butch
regretted not acting sooner.

“Squirt, he
needs help,” Dazy said. “The Money Run
is for people like you and me, not him.
He’s helpless.”

Butch stifled
a laugh. Dazy calling somebody unhealthy
was like him telling short jokes.
“You’re right, Dazy, but I don’t know too many people who are.”

“But he’s
my calling, Butch. Promise me you’ll
help save him.”

“I’m doing
everything I can…” He couldn’t finish
his sentence. Dazy’s tongue had shot
down his throat. Butch had enjoyed his
share of hookers, some mighty freaky ones, too.
But this was the first time he’d ever been kissed.

Dazy pulled
away. “Promise me, Butch. He needs both of us.” She seemed as rational as he could remember
her ever being.

“We get
through tonight…”

“Butch?” Another tear joined the stream down her face.

Butch wiped it
away with his thumb. “Okay, Dazy. I promise.”

# # #

Inside, the
tavern seemed too impossibly massive to be housed by the cinderblock
structure. No interior walls cluttered
the space, and with the modern-art sculpture of tables and chairs stacked in
one corner, the room appeared downright cavernous. The bar, an exquisite marble and cherry
monument that outclassed its surroundings, ran the length of the east
wall. In the center of the floor stood a
makeshift pit filled with dirty foam bricks.
The approach to the pit had been a bowling lane in its previous life.

“Please
welcome our final competitor in the first round.” The announcement blared over the PA
system. “Weighing in at one-hundred four
pounds of airborne fun, Professor Buuuuuuutch!”
Butch’s music blasted – the theme from “Rocky” – and the crowd,
sufficiently inebriated, welcomed him with the adoring applause.

His stomach
tumbled as he wove through the crowd toward the approach. There, the giant chewed his fingernails,
unable to return Butch’s gaze. His jeans
were rolled up to simulate Capri pants and he’d tied his tee-shirt into a knot,
exposing his navel.

Situated in
the front row of the standing crowd, Lefty blew Butch a kiss while offering
Dazy a beer. The leader board, a large
easel with slats screwed into it to hold name placards, showed Lefty
comfortably in the lead. His first throw
was ten feet, nine inches. Butch cursed
to himself. Anything over nine and a
half feet usually meant victory.

Walking across
the faux-hardwood approach, he waved his arms, accepting the drunken
revelry. He took inventory of possible
escape routes as he neared Rico. Despite
knowing he had little chance with Rico throwing, Butch still had overextended
himself with bets. He figured ‘what’s
more debt,’ and knew the wagers were his only chance to clear himself of his
burden to Lefty. He needed to make the
money through the back room.

As he drew
closer to Rico, he noticed tears streaming down the giant’s face. Butch slipped into the harness, feeling as if
he were being strapped to the electric chair.

“What’s the
issue, Rico?”

“Sister Dazy’s
really losing it, isn’t she?”

If he could’ve
reached, Butch would have slapped the giant upside the head. “Dazy’s fretting over you, you’re concerned
about Dazy. It’s my ass on the line here
right now. Can somebody worry about me?”

Rico burst
into tears. He grabbed the handles on
the harness, ran up the approach and threw Butch underhanded into the pit. Boos cascaded down from the crowd as Butch
swam his way up through the foam bricks to find he’d been thrown less than
three feet. He turned, watching Rico run
through the crowd and out the front door.

# # #

Butch found
the giant kneeling by the van, vomiting.
“Rico? You okay? Are you sick or just nervous?”

The large man
wiped his mouth. “I’m not Rico.”

“Theodore?” Butch’s head felt light with adrenaline and a
rush of hope.

Butch ran
through the vomit to hug his partner.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.
We still have a chance here, buddy.”

“Butch, we
need to talk.”

“Sure we do,
but can this wait until after the competition?”

“I’m afraid if
I don’t say what I have to now, I’ll never get up the courage to do it again.”

Butch opened
his mouth to tell Theodore that two-hundred thousand was at risk, but
remembered his promise to Dazy.
Reluctantly, he sat on the running board, motioning for his friend to
proceed.

“We’re
friends, right, Butch?” Theodore paused,
waiting for some acknowledgment. Butch
nodded in the affirmative. “Probably not
ever going to be more than that though, huh?”

Butch gritted
his teeth. The tavern door called his
name, and if he was missing something inside to rehash this again… “I’m
flattered, truly. But I can’t be
something I’m not.”

A laugh
escaped Theodore. “That makes one of
us.” The giant knelt, putting a hand on
Butch’s shoulder. “I’ve got a
confession, and I don’t think you’ll be none too happy with me. But remember, I love you – always have and
always will. Please don’t leave me. Get as mad as you want, but please don’t
leave.”

Stomach
churning, Butch licked his lips in anticipation. Thoughts of the competition faded as he
sensed the gravity Theodore was trying to attach to his words. Butch hadn’t been this nervous since the
hearing before the ethics committee in college.
Theodore’s voice sounded odd, like so many other people’s had before
they left him behind, unwilling to deal with an egomaniacal midget any
more. Butch nodded for the giant to
continue.

“Not now, not
ever. There’s no Rico. There’s no Big Guy. There’s no Siegfried or any of the
others.” A tear escaped. “I’ve made them all up.”

“Huh? You couldn’t make that up. I would’ve…”

“You’re not so
God-awful smart after all, are you? For
Chrissakes, Butch. I’m gay. It’s pretty much an unwritten law that I had
to at least minor in Theater.”
Using his sleeve, Theodore wiped away another emerging tear. “I was pretty good at it, huh?”

Butch knew he
should be enraged, but couldn’t focus on any anger. An eerie sense of relief filled him. “Why would you do this? You know how many sleepless nights I’ve
endured worrying about you?”

“I’m
sorry. But I knew you were using
me. I rationalized it would only be fair
to use you a little, too.”

“What?”

“The hand jobs, Butchy.”
Theodore stood, turning his back to the van. “The more you fixated on the competitions,
the less you cared about me. So I was
going to at least get a hand job out of it.
Switch personalities, get another.
But now Dazy’s so fucked up, it’s not about us anymore.”

The rage inside
finally bubbled to the surface. He’d
been played by Theodore, like everybody else had played him his entire
life. But Theodore was supposed to be
different. Before Butch could release
his anger, he heard the screams.

Emerging from
the stadium lighting, Dazy was running for the van. She held one of her shoes, the heel broken,
resulting in an uneven gait. “Butch!”
she yelled. “I’m going to fucking kill
you.” She threw the broken shoe,
clipping the midget in the head.

“What now?” he
grabbed his temple where the shoe had struck.
Drawing back his hand, he saw blood.

Butch looked
to Theodore, seeing the open-jawed shock.
“Hold on a second. That’s simply
not true.”

“Don’t lie to
me, Squirt. Lefty told me himself, right
before I brained him with my heel.”

“What’s she
talking about, Butch?”

Releasing a
loud sigh, Butch rubbed his eyes, trying to head off the emerging stress
headache. The blood stung his eyes,
causing them to water. He explained
about the debt, and Lefty’s options. His
spiel placated the others, but the tension still hung thick in the heat.

“You really
hit Lefty?” Butch asked.

“Hell
yeah. Bad enough to have those stubbly
little fingers all over my ass, but to have him say those things was too
much.” Dazy opened the van, removing a
beer. “Started quite the brouhaha,
too. It’s like a bar fight in a bad
western in there. We could probably
drive off right now without anybody noticing.”

Butch thought
that a viable option. He started walking
to the driver’s side.

“No,” Theodore
said. “We’ve done a lot of things, but
Butch and I have never quit. We’ll see
this through.”

“Shit,” Butch
whispered. But then the light went
on. He strutted over and took the beer
from Dazy. He looked at Theodore who
returned a slight nod. “Sister, I think
you and my friend here have some things to work out. He’s agreed to be saved, haven’t you
Theodore?”

“What?” the
giant paused. Butch glared at him,
nodding at the van.

“Theodore and
I have had a talk about sins and retribution and the value of confession. I think he’s ready to realize he owes
somebody here something.”

Theodore ran his finger through his
hair and rubbed his temples like he had a headache. “Yeah,” He paused again. “Help me, Sister Dazy. Free me of these demons.”

The smile on
Dazy’s face glowed brighter than the stadium lights. Theodore reached for her scarred hand,
leading her to the van.

# # #

Seated at the
bar, Butch checked his watch again, as if it made a difference. The chaos of the fight a distant memory,
Butch scratched away the label of the beer he dared not drink – his weight
being of concern. Only one more
competitor’s turn stood between him and forfeit if Theodore didn’t sweep in,
saving him.

“What’s up,
Squirt?” Dazy glowed, and the taint of
jealousy teased Butch. She claimed the
stool next to him, ordering an iced tea.

“How are you
feeling?”

“Satisfied.” Like her face didn’t illustrate that. “My work here is done.”

“What?”

“I’m out,
Squirt. Your friend is saved. No thanks necessary.”

A strange
sensation rose inside him. He realized
why he had never left her beside the road before. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

“Not real
sure.” Her face contorted into an
expression of disgust as she sipped off the tea. It looked like she’d eaten a dead skunk raw
off the pavement. “But I’m sure somewhere along The Money Run there’s a demand
for a nun who can suck dick like me.”

Butch searched
for words, but they hid from him. Dazy
bent and kissed him on the forehead.

“Thanks,
Squirt. I’m sure we’ll meet again down
the line.” She downed the rest of the
tea, looking like she might throw up.
“You take care of our friend.
He’s special.”

Before a reply
presented itself, the nun, great rack perfect legs and all, disappeared in the
crowd.
The theme from “Rocky” blasted
again from the sound system. For a
moment, Butch thought he might shit himself, and part of him wished he
would. Shedding the weight wouldn’t
hurt.

Focusing only
on the floor, Butch worked his way through the crowd. Insults rained down, referencing the first
throw. When he reached the ex-bowling
alley lane, he saw Theodore. His shirt
in tatters, hickeys dappled his neck.

“Are you
okay?” Butch asked.

“Not so
much. Let’s just get this over, okay?”

Again, Butch
slipped into the harness. It stank of
sweat and felt heavier than before.

“You mad at
me?” Theodore asked.

“Fuck
yes.” Butch spat on the floor, a stupid
attempt to shed any last weight he could.
“But we’re like brothers. I can
be mad and know we’ll always be together.”

“Don’t say
that. It makes everything between us
sound kinky.”

Butch
guffawed. “Listen to yourself. You pulled that scheme to get multiple hand
jobs from a midget, and you’re worried about sounding kinky?” He lay down on the approach.

“When you put
it like that, it sounds dirty.” Butch
closed his eyes, feeling the giant’s hands grasp his waist. “I kind of like it.”

Butch
laughed. He felt the moist lips of
Theodore upon his forehead. “I love you,
Butchy.”

The snap felt
right. Butch opened his eyes, finding
himself sailing past Lefty’s leader flag.
As he flew through the smoke-choked air, the epiphany exploded in his
mind.